


Draw Your Swords

by all-or-nothing-baby (BundleOfSoy)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (me and Der), Alternate Canon, Anal Fingering, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Canon Universe, Come Marking, Come Sharing, Derek Hale Angst, Derek Hale Feels, Derek Hale Loves Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale in Love, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Hale is a Softie, Derek Hale's Loft, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Angst, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski in Love, Derek Has Issues, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Derek Hale, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Grumpy Derek, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Marking, Mating Undertones, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, POV Derek, POV Derek Hale, Past Derek Hale/Paige, Past Jennifer Blake/Derek Hale, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Pining, Pining Derek, Post Season-Series 4 Fix-it, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Derek Hale, Romantic Stiles Stilinski, Sexual Tension, Sourwolf Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski Loves Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski in Love, Stiles Stilinski is Derek Hale's Anchor, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Werewolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25172647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BundleOfSoy/pseuds/all-or-nothing-baby
Summary: Something inside Derek snaps. No, not snaps.Clicks into place.He snarls, "That'smyline, little pig."Shit.Stiles blinks, twice. Three times. "What?" and he’s flailing at Derek's reference."If you're the little pig…" Derek's predator eyes flick deftly across each of Stiles' delicate features, "...then what does that make me?"Realisation crosses sharp yet soft bone structure and Stiles answers, slowly."You're the big…"Derek moves impossibly closer."...bad…"A goddamn virus."...wolf."ORDerek keeps his distance from Stiles, regardless of how he feels about him. It's better that way. Better for Stiles. But when Stiles has had enough of pretending there's nothing between them, just how much longer can Derek's wolf be tamed?
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 42
Kudos: 318





	Draw Your Swords

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shealynn88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/gifts).



> So, this is the first thing that I've managed to write (longer than a bit of poetry and a few Tumblr drabbles) since the start of quarantine.
> 
> Another getting together fic... but actually the getting together fic I think I've always wanted to write for these two: it's Der POV, angsty af, has some smut and, ofc, some Idiots In Love™... Oh, and it's also shameless logophile fodder cos, you know, it's me ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> The title and repetitive lines (and some of the themes, here) are taken straight out of the gorgeous _Draw Your Swords,_ a song by Angus and Julia Stone from their 2010 album _Down The Way._
> 
> The "Play it, Sam" references are from the 1942 film, Casablanca. I have a hc that Derek likes old movies... I like to think he used to watch them with Talia when he was a pup.
> 
> Set at the end of s4, TO FIX IT, DAMMIT bc Derek leaving was just balls. 
> 
> For Shea, for being so much more than a beta. And because you started it.
> 
> EDIT: NOW EMBEDDED WITH MY ART! :)

Derek isn’t expecting company. Derek’s rarely expecting company, though. And besides, anyone who is anyone has a key to the loft and doesn't need to knock. However, Derek had already heard the sorry excuse for a vehicle coming from half a mile away—its familiar strained engine three times louder than it should be—and knew exactly who was on their way before the rap on his door even sounded.

Stiles never usually knocks.

Derek waits, maybe a little cruelly, listening to the kid’s already too-fast heartbeat pick up the pace. When impatient knuckles rap another five times on the sliding steel door, he goes to answer the probable call to arms.

_Stiles’ arms._

Promptly stomping out the rogue thought like burnt embers, Derek schools his face to indifference and opens the shutter. He doesn’t react to the way seeing Stiles makes his own heart start to race.

“Heyyyy, big guy. Can we…” Stiles waves his stupid enchanting hands between them, “...do the thing? Like, now? I’ve got a couple free periods, soooo... if you got the time?” He chews at his bottom lip and Derek tries his level best not to dote on it. Or fixate on _doing the thing_ with Stiles Stilinski.

He then realises the kid hasn’t barged past him into the loft, yet. He’s just... waiting. Stood there, all hopeful and nervous and beautiful. 

_Fucking Stiles._

He's the fox guarding the henhouse—if the henhouse was full of Derek’s emotions instead of hens.

“Whatever.” Derek pulls the sliding door open fully knowing Stiles will, of course, follow him into the open space; ever the Lamb to Derek’s Lion. Derek inwardly curses Stiles again, this time for making the pack sit through that dumb sparkly vampire movie. In _Derek’s_ apartment.

Derek notes Stiles doesn't instantly scramble to check out the non-contents of the fridge. Nor does he sprawl out on the sofa, dirty sneakers squeaking all over Italian leather. He's just… standing there in the middle of the room. Doesn’t even speak, until Derek does.

“So…?” Derek prompts, leaning back against the kitchen island, agitated. He’s more than a little perturbed at the lack of _Stiles_ currently emanating from Stiles.

“Yeah?” Stiles lifts his head to look at Derek. His face is fucking breathtaking and Derek’s a fool, hates himself.

_Not for you._

Stiles is blinking rapidly and it’s the only thing breaking his gaze—which is uncomfortably burrowing beneath Derek’s skin, a particular recurring pest he always has trouble getting rid of.

Arms crossed across his chest, Derek’s already-balled fists tighten under his armpits. “You want information on the new omega… isn’t that what you're here for, Stiles?” Derek had previously mentioned that he maybe-might-possibly recognise the new wolf in town and why does Derek always have to sound so damn angry with the kid?

_Not anger. Frustration. And not with Stiles._

“Oh, yeah…” Stiles blinks more. “Well, no, actually—I mean, _yes_ but…” An unsure Stiles scratches at the back of his head, brows knitted, eliciting immediate concern in Derek.

“What is it? Has somebody hurt you?” and Derek springs, loping towards Stiles before he can think better of it, reaching out a hand to cup Stiles’ chin between fingers and thumb, tilting his head from side to side.

“No, man, I’m fine, but… ” he denies the claim, yet Stiles still allows him to keep looking for the lie he could be telling.

 _Until he doesn’t._ Long fingers and thumb now close one by one around Derek’s wrist, gentle and soft. Too soft. But for what reason? To mock Derek’s concern? To comfort him? The not-knowing is too much for Derek and he pulls away, backing off. Looks away. Almost at once, he’s scenting the other kind of hurt now filling the room, like an unwanted aftertaste. 

Derek sighs. “Look, I just…” but he doesn't really know where he’s going with the sentence.

And the kid's voice is whipped cream. “No, it’s okay, Der. It's kinda part of why I came ove—”

“No, Stiles, it isn’t okay! None of this is okay. Don’t you get it?” and _fuck_ why is he shouting? What the hell is he doing? 

“What isn’t okay, Derek? Me coming over to talk shop?" Stiles' voice hardens only slightly but his eyes are screaming now. "Because it’s like, at least a couple years too late for that, don’t you think?” His words are aiming for civil but his eyes are selling a different story. Maybe Derek can latch onto the former to cover his own dumb tracks.

“Actually, yeah. You always just turning up here like this? It _is_ a problem, Stiles.” Derek misleads. “You don’t even bother to text most of the time.” And it sounds so thin, so fucking lame and Derek knows it. And what’s worse, Stiles knows Derek knows it.

"Der..."

Then Stiles is there, in one long stride, reaching out towards Derek about to mirror Derek’s action from a moment ago. Derek catches his wrist before Stiles can touch him though—but not half as gently or softly as Stiles had. He doesn’t dare. “Don’t,” Derek warns.

_Please, please do._

Stiles smiles a non-smile. “One rule for you and another for me, huh?” and he’s now shaking his head. “Nothing new there, I guess.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Derek spits. But why? He's supposed to be putting Stiles off the scent, so to speak, so why the hell is he biting?

_Need._

Stiles’ brow jumps. “Uh, really? That’s a little Monica calling Ross competitive, don’t you think?” Yet more moronic pop culture references Derek now unfortunately knows, thanks to Stiles.

Derek feigns confusion, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And when did he turn into such an easy liar?

“No, of course you don’t.” Stiles’ sarcasm bites back. “You never do, whenever things between us get… confusing.”

Derek’s chest tightens. He releases Stiles. The kid is absolutely not supposed to be confronting Derek like this, trying to tear down Derek’s carefully constructed walls inside of his own damn home, with… whatever this is. This _something_ between them they're both more than aware of. Is it the real reason Stiles is here? 

_Play it, Sam._

"Stiles, don't."

_Stiles, do._

Stiles moves closer regardless, apparently insistent on trying to break through the fog of uncertainty between them; a particular thinning cloud which Derek thinks he would rather stay a hazy mass. Derek sighs and allows his wolf to stalk out from beneath his shadow, just a touch. He grabs Stiles by his shirt, dragging him to the nearby desk and drops him onto the chair at Stiles’ self-proclaimed research spot. When Stiles looks up at him, face now raging, Derek curls his lip and slowly allows his canines to lengthen. They’re not extended nearly enough to do any damage—but _are_ ugly and threatening enough to dominate. At least that’s how it’s supposed to work. 

"Stop. Talking." Derek instructs firmly. He’s actually begging, doesn’t know how to deal with this kind of attack.

Stiles grits his teeth together now, a rock and a hard place, with as much ferocity as his non-existent fingernails are digging themselves into the underside of Derek’s swivel chair and it’s as if he’s cable-tying himself to his cause. Binding himself. _To Derek._ And even though each of Derek's senses is yelling that Stiles is afraid—Derek can hear his heart now trying to punch its way out through his frail ribcage, can smell panic seeping through every pore of that pale, pale skin—the aggravating brat just juts his chin and sets his brow. Maybe he enjoys the thrill, Derek wonders. Maybe… maybe this isn’t fear of Derek? Because _wow_ , Derek also now scents—

"Really? Stop talking?" Stiles' brow meets his hairline, "Have you actually met me?" his voice as tight as his manner. Then, facial muscles relaxing a little, he somehow manages to lose the inherent sarcasm. "C'mon, man, I'm so sick of this _let's pretend_ bullshit. All the reasons I had to pretend _not_ to want this... they dried up after we killed the nogitsune—because, apparently, being possessed by a thousand-year-old evil fox spirit does things to a guy—well, I say all the reasons. Most of them anyhow, and anyways…" and he studies Derek with intent now, resolve creeping into his curious gaze and reaching Derek like ivy through cracks in stone. “I'm not scared of you any more, Derek. I know you won't hurt me."

_How the hell does he know?_

Derek hates that Stiles knows. Hates being known.

_Craves it._

A growl ascends in his throat, deep and low, eyes now flashing an amber warning as he attempts to disguise the itch he badly wants to scratch at. But Stiles just slowly shakes his head, clever tongue flicking out to wet those sinful lips that make Derek want to howl.

_Enough, Sam. Change the damn tune._

So pungent now, as if to mock Derek—to really kick his willpower square in the balls—is the musky aroma of arousal, adding to the sharp, punchy panic infusing with Stiles' own candied yet tangy scent.

_Not fear of the Were. Fear of rejection._

Derek’s wolf aggressively bites back the thought. He _hates_ what he's doing to Stiles by keeping his distance, but he has to. Has to stay away. He's better alone—and Stiles is definitely better off without him. Derek shifts gears, back into Stoic Derek, shutting down his emotions like a reflex. It’s almost muscle memory now, his best defence. However, there _is_ a major downside to the action, by that Derek is leaving himself wide open to only physical sensations. Now, breathing in, his mouth literally waters with the heady scent of the kid’s syrupy-spice. It's overpowering. This close-up, Derek can almost taste Stiles.

_Want to taste Stiles._

_Fuck,_ he almost says it out loud.

"Let me in, Der."

_Come home…_

And something inside Derek snaps. No, not snaps. _Clicks into place._ He snarls, "That's _my_ line, little pig."

_Shit._

Stiles blinks, twice. Three times. "What?" and he’s flailing at Derek's reference.

"If you're the little pig…" Derek's predator eyes flick deftly across each of Stiles' delicate features, "...then what does that make me?" 

Realisation crosses sharp yet soft bone structure and Stiles answers, slowly.

"You're the big…"

Derek moves impossibly closer.

"...bad…"

_A goddamn virus._

"...wolf."

Derek's lips part like nature and he's still uncertain of what he'll do next. But mercifully Stiles steals the decision, stretching out that swan neck and firmly pressing his pretty and fuckable lips onto Derek's, so hard and pliable all at once. Stiles' tongue slips into Derek’s mouth and seeks out fangs like he doesn't even care if they draw blood. But Derek cares. So much more than he has a right to. He instantly retracts his wolf and hell, if he doesn't know better than this but he crowds into Stiles' mouth, all tongue and teeth and saliva, while failing at not letting his feral heart feel any of it. And Stiles, like he knows _—why the fuck does he have to know?_ —opens wide to let him in, licking into Derek in turn, arms hooking themselves around Derek's shoulders as if he's holding Derek up to brace him against the nine-tailed whip-crack of emotions now skinning his back. Both Derek's hands fly instinctively to curl around the base of the kid's neck, just to hold on. A lifeline. 

_An anchor._

Derek’s eyes fly abruptly open with the horror of what he’s apparently willing to put on this kid. And when Stiles sinks all of his spent patience into Derek's bottom lip then laves over it with wet tongue, Derek thinks he may be beyond curbing this altogether if he doesn't try now. Holding a moan in his throat that almost bubbles over like lava, he pulls away from what drives him insane yet is everything he wants, breaking the kiss. Almost shaking, he bites into the dents Stiles' teeth have left in his lip and releases a jerky breath through flared nostrils.

"Oh my fucking God, Der, please don't stop," Stiles now begs, opening glassy eyes, swan-stretching out again as Derek backs off. “You cannot stop now…” and sneaker heels rub marks into concrete floor as Stiles' hips thrust for Derek's right thigh, trying to get some friction on his hard-on that's straining in his pants.

"Stiles, this isn't—"

"I don't care, Der. Please, just. Just do that again..." and he's breathless and reeks of need and sex, “I want you to just—I need you to, Derek. Please…"

_Pandora’s Box._

"You'll regret it."

"I really won't," Stiles almost laughs and it cuts Derek like broken china. He can smell the pre-come leaking from Stiles. Can taste the red-hot lava in his own throat and _fuck,_ fighting this is harder than staving off the change on a full moon.

Derek lies again, "I'll regret it." He's weak and trying not to breathe.

"Maybe,” Stiles swallows audibly, “but only because you're scared of what it means," Stiles says with unfair insight, voice a little softer.

_Fuck him. Fuck him for knowing._

Dangerous turn of phrase.

"Der, if we do this and you regret it afterwards, fine. I'll stop asking and I won't tell anybody it happened, I swear. But are you really okay with _what if?”_ Stiles looks right inside of him with sureness—and it’s a thousand times better than all of the power Derek ever held as an alpha. “You really think you can walk away and just pretend like this is nothing?" and there's so much hope swirling in those praline eyes, it's killing Derek. "Because _me?_ I can't. Not anymore. Not unless you tell me that's the way it's gotta be."

Derek couldn't regret this happening with Stiles. Not for one single moment. It— _Stiles_ —is everything he wants. He's the person Derek craves to protect and care for. The perfectly imperfect connection he desires to begin finding himself. To let himself want; let himself be wanted. To maybe even… But shit, the inevitability of losing Stiles? Or worse, ruining him… _those_ things, he would regret. They could kill Derek for real. After everything, this is everything.

_Stiles is everything._

"I'm not good with people, Stiles. Not good _for_ people," Derek grasps at the short straw.

_Paige. The family._

“Yeah? Well, try being me…" Stiles starts to ramble, drunk on oxytocin, desire a breath between them. His bony hips are squirming but his fists stay twisted up in the shoulder seams of Derek’s leather, solid against Derek. "I will definitely talk in my sleep; chew _really_ frickin loudly; annoy just about anybody you might introduce me to within exactly fifteen seconds of meeting them; I absolutely do not have a brain to mouth filter, if you haven't noticed; and have, like, a gazillion fixations that you'll hate. Like, I stan Skysolo harder than you'd think humanly possible. I even have an explicit fanart I commissioned…"

"Stop talking, Stiles." Derek doesn’t huff and puff. But he wants to. Feels his wolf writhing and gnashing inside of him again, growing agitated and impatient to be unleashed. 

_How is it possible for a person to be both painfully infuriating and so fucking enticing all at once?_

"...and I can't _ever_ shut the hell up—" 

Derek slams his hungry mouth back onto those cherry-plump lips to make them work at something other than talking. He can't deal with words, because words lead to more words; words that will end up being the kind of words which are always too much for Derek. After claiming Stiles' tongue as his own, sucking on it like marrow, Derek suddenly pushes the swivel chair backwards using almost just the force of lust alone. He stalks over and heaves Stiles up and out of his seat by his shirt as the backrest hits the bed and throws him down onto his mattress, not so gently because Stiles was asking for it, dammit.

_In more ways than one._

"Shit," Stiles almost can't whisper, as he swallows his shock and obvious need around the word. He's wry-smiling and breathing just as hard as Derek is when Derek climbs over him—straddling Stiles' wiry frame, looming. Derek looks the kid up and down and feels his pupils dilating; a starving man given more food than he can possibly eat.

_Or maybe just a wild animal?_

"What's wrong?" Stiles asks, noting what has to be only a minute shift in Derek’s expression. The eighteen-year old's instincts are a goddamn phenomenon.

"You… shouldn't let me in," Derek falters, hammering his mouth shut and nailing it tightly with rhythmic blows from his jawbone. 

Regardless of Derek's sage advice though, faith now joins the hope and thirst in Stiles' gaze. "Derek, you can do this. I want you to do this. I want _us_ to do this," and Derek knows he's talking about more than just getting naked together. "Please, Der. I can't keep—"

"But Stiles, you don't know what—" 

"Oh my God, stop talking," and Stiles sits up, wrapping his entire body around Derek and bares his throat with a grace he shouldn’t possess.

Derek growls, "Stop stealing my lines," before his nose digs a hole and buries itself in the very essence of Stiles.

_Stiles. Stiles. Stiles._

Growling again, Derek noses along prominent Adam’s apple then jugular and inhales, sharp and deep, filling his lungs with the one and only thing that stopped him—back in that desert in Mexico—from driving away from his life in Beacon Hills, forever. Heading lower, kissing each mole in turn, Derek reaches Stiles’ collar bones and makes himself a den in the caverns there. Where it’s guarded and hot and _alive._ Hearing Stiles' pulse now racing, Derek's ability to think begins to slip away with each metal tooth on the fly of his Levis as the zip descends, Stiles now teasing it open with those spider leg fingers. And when Derek finds himself territorially sucking at porcelain skin, forcing urgent noises from Stiles that curl up inside Derek’s ear and make a home there—small gasps and faint whimpers and moans—the lava hits boiling point and bubbles up and out of Derek's throat with a muffled groan that sounds something like _Stiles_ and the sheer timbre of his wrecked voice shocks Derek into some semblance of sense.

_The kid’s broken enough._

Looking at the slight scarlet wolf-prints he’s left all along Stiles' collarbone, Derek plucks those mischievous hands from their dirty work, gripping Stiles by the wrists. Stiles looks at Derek, with eyes his own age for the first time in a long time. Derek, still trying to give the kid an exit—give him the only part of himself that is _good_ —warns, “Stiles, if I—”

“I trust you.”

And those words, which Derek didn’t even know he needed to hear so badly, barrel straight into his dwindling reserve of self-control, knocking out any last-ditch fist-fight Derek has against this.

_Kate is gone. Jennifer is gone. Can’t be tricked into hurting anybody else… Stiles would never do that._

He slowly releases his grip.

Derek _needs_ Stiles, almost can't remember a time when he didn't. It feels like forever—yet having him, having this, for real? It still seems so far away, even with Stiles almost vibrating beneath him. But when Stiles pops the button on Derek’s jeans, repeating those three words with his mouth and his eyes, Derek knows: there is no way he can stop this now. Nor did he ever want to.

_Stiles. The only one._

Like his mind has finally caught up with his body—because he’s never been more turned on in his whole fucking life than here, for Stiles—Derek chokes the last of his refrain with courage and grabs every weapon in his arsenal… no longer with the intention of defending himself but to fight for what is his if he wants it. And Derek wants it. He wants it _right now._

Stiles looks up at Derek with eyes like flares and it's as if he can read minds. “No more fuckin’ around.”

Derek nods his head and it’s a weighty promise in a simple movement. He shifts his hips to allow his pants and boxer-briefs to be shimmied south. Stiles has thumbs hooked into the belt loops so his fingers can ghost Derek’s skin as he goes. Derek can feel swirls of fingerprints moving down the outside of his thighs, dragging through leg hair as he pushes himself upwards for Stiles to shed him of denim and cotton and guilt. But before Stiles can get rid of them completely, Derek sinks back down, now bringing them face to face. He places his hands either side of Stiles’ head, fingers threading through unruly rust-tinted hair, bolting himself to Stiles. Foreheads and noses touching, Derek now rumbles, “You’re mine. "

_Please stay. Stay forever._

Derek is claiming his mate and Stiles' eyes grow wide _—_ so wide Derek could climb right inside of them. The kid must know just what Derek’s words mean and he takes a breath, opening his mouth to speak but Derek scrambles to add, “And I’m yours,” before Stiles can say a thing. Derek doesn't want any sort of power play with Stiles. Not ever. Stiles _, quite unbelievably_ , then swallows down whatever his reply was and tilts his chin just enough to catch Derek’s lips with his own. Hands coming to frame Derek's face, deadlocking them, he kisses Derek, deep and rich like warmed treacle. Tastes like it too. That and mint toothpaste and Red Bull and green Skittles and also something with so much stark truth to it that it terrifies Derek just as much as it excites him. He's about to worry about it when Stiles pulls back. Curves that crooked smile.

“What took you so long, big guy? The rest of the pack gonna start calling me _mom_ now, or what?”

Derek snarls, and growls, “Don’t push it, Stiles,” and then he’s burrowing back into his den, getting high on Stiles' scent and taste and touch. As he links fingers from both his hands through Stiles', pinning the kid's arms up above his head, Derek licks long wet stripes up the mole-peppered path that eventually leads back up to howl-worthy lips and he kisses Stiles again. _Really_ kisses him, deep and desperate now with everything he has, trying to show Stiles exactly what he means to him. How Stiles is everything. How much he wants Stiles, wants this. Wants _them_. Derek—whose pants are still halfway down his thighs—is fully hard, cock pressed up and tightly trapped between his belly and Stiles who is now writhing like a pit of vipers beneath him, his own cock hard and insistent against Derek’s groin and suddenly, acutely, they are both wearing way too many clothes.

Derek instructs Stiles, "Don't move," and before the kid can deliver a smart-mouthed retort about involuntary fidgeting, Derek lays Stile's down but not before pulling Stiles' shirts up and over his head, revealing pale chest and puckered nipples and a trail of dark fuzz meandering down from his lower abdomen to— _ohhhh, fuck_ ... he discards the kid’s clothes like they’re laced with wolfsbane and nosedives to taste Stiles again, lapping greedily at each rib and sucking on the planes of his midriff, dipping his tongue into Stiles’ navel like there's gold to be found. There's now only a faint, bitter taste of shower gel and body spray; it's mostly clean salty skin with a light sheen of fresh sweat and pheromones and just pure, raw _Stiles_. And it’s all crackling away on Derek's tongue like popping candy, his taste buds and synapses alight with it. Stiles, practically purring now, pulls Derek back up to sample his mouth again, his crafty winding tongue apparently a flimsy distraction for nimble fingers to sneak off and unzip the fly of his own jeans. But Derek’s breakneck hands give chase. “Let me. _Please,"_ Derek asks and Stiles’ hands have already found Derek’s face again, his touch light... then more definite, blunt nails scraping roughly through Derek’s long stubble and sideburns as he encourages Derek to _get on with it_ by bucking his hips. Derek makes quick work of the task, yanking Stiles’ pants down just far enough to make it count. A little frenzied now, Stiles helps him shed the leather and Henley he’s still wearing and when he straightens up, the kid’s hands are immediately _on him._ Derek sits up and backs onto his heels and he’s panting heavily, lofty above Stiles. It’s... surreal. Derek almost can’t process that this is happening, those slender hands— _Stiles’ hands_ —now riding the curve of his thighs as Stiles follows, sitting up so they're face to face again. Then he's running wild over Derek's hardened wolfskin and somehow making it soft and translucent and vulnerable—or maybe that’s just Derek, now.

Then, "Der, I need—"

_To feel._

"Yeah," Derek hums. He brings a hand to Stiles’ mouth, resting two finger pads on the plump flesh there and pulling down a touch, parting Stiles’ lips which yield so easily. Stiles, looking like danger, allows Derek to slide inside his warm wetness. He sucks and swirls around Derek’s fingers, then slides his tongue into the gap between Derek’s middle and forefingers and the suggestive motion strikes lightning through every one of Derek’s mutated cells and _fuck_ , it almost has him whining like a pup. Quickly, he pulls out and cups his hand just beneath Stiles’ mouth. The kid catches on fast, spitting his saliva that now pools in Derek’s palm. Derek frantically gropes between them to line up their cocks and when he gets his fist around the both of them, Stiles makes a noise like nothing Derek has ever heard, punched out and blistered and gorgeous. The sound resonates in Derek's gut like rolling thunder as he squeezes their dicks at their base, scenting the fresh mix of his and Stiles’ precome as it oozes and it has him shuddering and growling his desire, loudly—and it’s just more thunder following yet more lightning bolts. As he begins to stroke them both, his and Stiles’ hearts keeping rhythm, his loud growls turn to loud gasps as they slide easily against each other, hot and hard and Derek wants to go fast but also doesn’t because he wants to savour every slick pass, every heavy breath. He wants to put it all in a box for another time like he might not get to have this again... And then he's a wolf in headlights caught in Stiles’ gaze once more, a perpetual bronze and beautiful tragedy—and Derek wants to say things he doesn’t know how to say.

But Stiles gifts him. “It’s okay, I hear you,” recognising Derek’s struggle in a way nobody else can. Nobody since Laura, he realises. And that matters so fucking much, Derek thinks he could actually break down—if he wasn’t so focused on making Stiles feel everything Derek has to give, everything he deserves.

_Got to give more._

Derek looks down at their dicks—Stiles, cut and pink and long; Derek uncut and dark and thick—and sees how his grip on them both is only just enough for the two of them.

_The kid should have more._

He sits back a little to spit his own saliva, letting it hang down until it leaves his lips and coats their cock-ends, bleeding into the gaping slits. Stiles hisses inward breaths as Derek begins to slowly pump his fist again. He takes his other, free hand and smoothes a palm over them both, spreading the swirled fusion of spit and precome and lubing them up further. Eyes now back on Stiles, _bewitching fucking Stiles,_ he licks wetly at his free hand, front and back, before rising up on his knees to slip it between them and paw at Stiles’ balls and taint. Not his ass, though—but only because he can’t quite reach from this angle. He endeavours to get there anyway. Soon, he will. He looks at the way his hand is stretching from his thumb massaging balls to his middle finger on nearly-ass, letting Stiles know his intention with small huffs and impatient twitches of his bitten lips. Glancing up again at the kid now, he sees Stiles is an absolute fucking mess and it just makes Derek want to dirty him up further. As Derek begins to lean forward, at once needing his tongue inside Stiles’ mouth again before he’ll change position to get to that ass, Stiles— _the sneaky little shit_ —gets in his own clearly spit-lubed fingers underneath Derek and gropes for only a sliver of a moment before finding Derek’s hole. Derek jerks in surprise, Stiles brushing his long, lithe fingers all over Derek’s ass, every one of them moving and rubbing and sliding around, each like a tongue that licks and flicks the ring of muscle that now twitches as Derek’s mouth had when he’d wanted to touch Stiles there. And hell, it’s too much and not enough and just right. Derek just wants to give it all to Stiles, all he can give, all Stiles deserves. But of course, here is Stiles taking what he needs by giving Derek everything. And... and there’s nothing more Stiles than that.

_The only one._

Derek kind of wants to cry again and this time it comes out as a shaky, brow-knitted smile.

Stile’s, ever the mind-reader, sputters out, “Tell me again, Der,” as he brings his other hand to wrap and close around Derek’s so they’re now both getting themselves and each other off, their hands and heads in unison.

Derek understands what Stiles is saying—and is going to tell the whole of Beacon Hills and beyond. “You’re mine,” he affirms.

“And you’re mine, Der. And— _shhhhit_ —you’re... enough. You’re enough, Derek. Do you hear me?" Stiles answers and asks in a series of moans, that firm gaze now awed and desperate and filthy all at once, "you’re mine and I’m yours. _Only_ yours,” Stiles says again.

_The only one._

Derek answers, “I’m yours, Stiles. I’m yours and you're mine. You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re...” and they're both now repeating the words over and over to each other as Stiles allows Derek to mate him, stroking them faster, until they’re both singing their claims like lyrics to a song they’ve written in moaning and stuttering breaths, the sounds of joined hands stripping silky flushed cocks accompanying their chorus. 

Stiles then takes the lead with his slender hand gripping tighter around Derek’s that is gripping them both and Derek’s brain is shutting down as Stiles jerks them faster. “You’re mine, Derek. And I’m yours. And I want you to _show_ me I’m yours,” Stiles says and a finger breaches Derek’s hole, barely, but enough for sparks to flash behind Derek’s retinas and for him to lose his fucking mind. His orgasm is building, begging to rip through him as Stiles speaks again with a tone like cracking ice to tell him, “Don’t close your eyes, Der. Watch...” and when Derek can see and feel and smell Stiles starting to break apart—lips quivering and long lashes fluttering, legs shaking beneath him—he has to let it all go, panting through groans as his dick pulsates and he’s coming, _fuck he’s coming so hard,_ spurting and covering Stiles’ chest and belly as Stiles aims it at himself, letting Derek mark him up and then Stiles stiffens and _fuck,_ he’s coming too and Derek’s never seen anything more beautiful. His ass is clenching around the tip of Stiles’ finger while his dick gushes its every last drop at the sight he’s fantasized about so many times. The kid is holding his breath, teeth embedded in his lip and their dicks are now aimed at Derek as Stiles’ warm, milky come splashes Derek’s sternum and abs and heart, which is endeavouring to beat its way out of his chest and kill him.

When Stiles finally lets out his breath in a whimper, slumping and shuddering as aftershocks hit him hard, Derek is on him faster than the kid can take another breath. “I’ve got you,” and he pulls Stiles in close as they both ride it out, their come-smeared and sweat-soaked bodies pressed up against each other. Derek holds Stiles, holds him tight, grounding him. Firm and steady.

_An anchor._

__

Stiles then allows himself to be taken, cradled by Derek as Derek lowers his now limp body down to the mattress and onto his back and he’s perfection; strung out and spent and so fucking gorgeous. Derek quickly lays alongside him, every part of his left side aligning itself with pretty and pale, freckled limbs, a leg slung over Stiles protectively. Derek has never liked being away from Stiles for long, finds the times he is akin to being captured and caged, pacing around and unable to eat or sleep much. But now—

_Allowed to be close. Never want to stop touching. Want to touch everywhere... Every last part of you, Stiles, inside and out. I want to build a nest to keep you safe and hold you more and fuck you, hard and soft and everything in between, suck lilac bruises into your pretty skin so everyone can see who you belong to and I want to kiss you and kiss you and kiss you until your lips are swollen and red and then wrap myself completely around you, Stiles, my Stiles, and love you and hold you some more, just hold you until we both start to mend. You're mine, Stiles. You're the only one._

Derek freezes. He is suddenly scared almost to death that he maybe actually just spoke all of those thoughts out loud— _to Stiles, here and now_ —his mated wolf obviously delirious.

“I’d better be the only one, dude,” Stiles mumbles, eyes still closed.

“Don’t call me dude,” and it’s like a reflex or something by this point. “Wait, was I…? You, uh, you heard all of that?” Derek asks, the meek and frightened sheep instead of the big bad wolf.

_Fool! Fucked up, idiotic_ —

“Your _wolf_ was just nesting, is all… and _you,_ Derek? You were just busy being all cute and romantic and shit,” Stiles teases, opening eyes that smile at Derek.

Derek _had_ said all of that stuff out loud.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Stiles, I—”

“Me too,” Stiles answers both Derek and his wolf.

Derek can’t breathe.

_Let’s not fuck around._

Derek’s fight or flight wants to take off into the air, go somewhere high up and far away and not look back, escaping this—this thing that is too big for him, that he’s too small for, too weak to carry… but Derek and his wolf act fast, battling to stop it mid-take-off and grounding the fucker, holding it down and arming it with new-found fortitude.

_Fight. For him._

Derek and Stiles… it’s messy and it’s terrifying and it’s… it is... it just _is._ This _something_ between them is that thing he’s most scared of having and losing. It’s real and Derek knows it. They both know it, have known it for some time and have both even kind of said so, now. In a way.

_It is love. But not some woollen shroud, blinding, like the other times... it’s love that’s solid. Certain._

Derek is caught in Stiles’ gaze again and this time he stays with it, lets it burrow under his skin and make a home there. Stiles brings a hand up to slide quiet fingers into Derek’s damp hair and scratch at his scalp, sending shivers through Derek that fracture the bricks in his walls… and then they’re falling down all around him, crumbling and leaving him bare; wide open to being a target, to being hurt. But it’s... that’s okay. Because it’s Stiles. It’s _Stiles,_ here with him. Derek now leans into his touch like it’s the thing keeping him alive—and he realises he _is_ alive because of Stiles, the kid has saved him from death so many times. And now, Stiles is here saving Derek from himself.

Stiles shifts. Props himself up on an elbow.

“You’re mine and I’m yours,” he reiterates for Derek, unblinking.

Derek breathes. “You’re mine and I’m yours,” he agrees quietly, squirming a little with his newfound openness now they’re not tearing each other’s clothes off. But it seems to be enough for Stiles.

_Still broken... but enough._

Stiles had said so, told Derek he was enough. Told him he trusted him.

Derek trusts Stiles. Implicitly.

_The only one._

Stiles now leans into Derek’s world again and kisses Derek in a way he’s never been kissed. Derek holds onto the feeling so tightly it scares him... but it's okay to be scared now, he reminds himself.

_Stiles is here._

Stiles pulls Derek down on top of him without breaking the kiss. Derek hums or maybe growls, he's not sure, and everything he wants is here and he never wants to leave. The kid has him. For as long as Stiles wants Derek, Derek will be here. He'll be _his_. And when Stiles pulls away for the sake of breathing, he kisses all of Derek’s face—forehead and eyes and nose and each cheek, not leaving Derek’s world but creating a new one, one of their own for the both of them to live in. One where they are here for each other, exactly what the other needs.

_Anchors._

With Stiles, Derek can do this. He opens his eyes and looks at Stiles.

_The irritating spindly kid with the mouth and the buzzcut._

Stiles is a man, now. A willowy guy with hair wild as bramble bush, elegant fingers and inhumanly long lashes, with cheekbones almost as sharp as his wit and with always too much to say—his lush mouth as smart as his mind but not quite as big as the bravest and most hopelessly romantic heart Derek’s ever known.

_Stiles._

“What’re you thinking about, babe? Oh my god, did you hear that? I just gave you a pet name already. It just came out, I swear. Totally naturally, cause it's not like I’ve thought about it or anything. I mean, _yeah_ , I’ve maybe thought about it a little but, like… it’s not like I’d _decided_ or anything, you know?”

_Play it again, Sam._

Derek rolls his eyes and sighs. “Well, I _was_ thinking about how I... feel...,” he dares himself, swallowing hard, “…happy,” he admits, gingerly. Stiles, one hand now stilling in Derek’s hair, stops waving the other free one around and gives Derek his full attention. Derek knows this means the kid wants him to elaborate so, after a moment he says, “I, uh, almost can’t remember the last time I felt this way,” and knowing he can’t quite deal with the level of scrutiny he’s sure Stiles’ eyes are about to burden him with, Derek lays his head down on Stiles’ chest and inhales his warming scent.

_Home._

After mulling it over a while, listening to Stiles’ heartbeat and profound silence, he decides, “It was when I realised Cora was alive...” Stiles cards his fingers through Derek’s hair again, now smoothing stray strands from his forehead, “...when I realised I wasn’t alone. That I still had family.” And then, for a few moments, there’s only the constant and assuring sound of pumping human blood and the more recent noise of light summer rain skimming the many panes of the loft’s huge window.

Until, “Der, your family is so much more than Cora, now. You do know that, right?”

Derek steals himself and cranes his neck to look up to Stiles. He reaches for the kid’s other hand, the one not comforting him, to bring it palm-side up to his lips and he starts to lick, gently—hoping Stiles knows what it means. Stiles always seems to know things he shouldn’t necessarily know.

“Yeah you do,” Stiles affirms. He gets Derek’s meaning and Derek hears how Stiles’ smile has travelled from his eyes to his voice. “You know,” he says, swirling nomadic fingers from Derek’s hair to his neck and shoulder and back again, “The last time _I_ felt like this?” Stiles muses, “Was when you didn’t leave, like I thought you were gonna. Thought you’d take off after Mexico.”

Derek now ceases his grooming and looks back at his mate. His family.

“I almost did,” he admits. “I came…” Derek takes a breath. “I came back for you, Stiles,” and Derek manages to hold Stiles’ gaze, needing Stiles to know this—and hoping his wide eyes will tell the tale for him.

Stiles blinks a few times, slowly, those long lashes almost brushing his cheeks as he looks down at Derek. “I know,” and even though the statement sounds almost like a question, there’s just enough belief in the tone for Derek to be sure his look must have expressed his story well enough. Derek now reaches up behind him and pulls Stiles down to kiss him, upside down and languid and sloppy and they clash teeth and neither of them gives a fuck. When Derek reckons Stiles’ neck must be aching he lets him go—but not entirely. Turning slightly, he pulls a slender freckled arm around himself in a submissive manner he’s never dared display before. Derek hadn’t always wanted more power. And now he knows he never really needed it. Only this.

_The only one._

Stiles shifts around a bit, settling like concrete in Derek’s bed, Derek’s head back on his chest and both of Stiles’ hands now in Derek’s hair. Derek rubs his cheek into lean chest muscle and closes his lids. He’s... content.

_In Love._

“Spidey upside-down kisses, huh? You're definitely Mary-Jane though." Stiles says and he’s grinning, Derek can feel it. "Oh, and you do realise that I just totally Han Solo’d you, right? Like, just a second ago when I said _I know_...?”

_No buzz cut. But still mouthy and just as irritating._

Derek opens his eyes begrudgingly and thinks that maybe _vexing_ is the right word. “What the hell are you talking about, Stiles?"

“Oh my god, Der, you are so full of shit,” Stiles counters, a hand leaving Derek’s hair to wave his disdain around, “You know exactly what I’m talking about. I know you remember that night I made you watch it... the night Kira fell off the sofa laughing at Scott’s horrendous impression? The part from Empire when Leia says _I love you_ and Han says _I kn_ — _oh, shit!”_

Derek has flipped over onto all fours and now pounces, his blunt, human teeth sinking into Stiles’ neck, sucking an angry already-forming bruise right into throat muscle, his muffled growls escaping as Stiles wails beneath him like a snared fox.

_Maybe just a little power._

As Derek marks his mate again, making sure this particular blemish will be visible to anyone and everyone, his back arches suddenly as Stiles makes claims of his own by dragging fingertips up and down Derek’s spine so hard Derek can feel welts forming and disappearing just as quickly.

“No fair,” Stiles breathes right into Derek’s ear canal, managing to make it sound indecent, like some sort of promise and Derek’s dick is twitching with interest again. He pulls off Stiles with a popping sound and admires the symbol he’s left and it’s bigger and darker than the others—the ones that will hide beneath the kid's clothes, just for Stiles—because this one is a message. 

“Pretty?” Stiles asks.

_Exquisite._

“Yeah.” 

_I love you._

“This is for all the hot folks out there that want a piece of this, huh? To let them know I'm yours...” and the latter part doesn’t sound like a question. “You know, I sometimes have to physically fight them off,” he muses and Derek huffs. “What? I’m serious, Der, did you not know that?”

“If they touch you, I’ll rip their throats out. With my teeth.” Derek makes that sound indulgent—but he hopes Stiles knows it isn’t.

Stiles snorts then sounds a little more serious when he says “You said that to _me_ once.”

“I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt you, Stiles. Even back then.”

_Wanted you too much._

“But,” Derek reminds him, “at the time I was _literally_ dying and needed your help and you were busy being a pissy, whiny little bitch.”

“Screw you, Sourwolf.” And Stiles tugs at a clump of Derek’s hair, the hint of a smile back in his voice.

But Derek wants to be sure the kid understands him. Needs him to know... “I’m serious, Stiles.”

“Yes, Derek, I get it. You were pissed, but that doesn’t mean—?”

“No, I mean… if anyone did… if anyone tries to hurt you…” Derek’s referring back to the throat-ripping. He’s maybe not being quite so literal now but he needs Stiles to know he’ll protect him, whatever the cost.

_Mine._

Derek has to tame his snarling wolf.

“Der—”

“I just mean… you can count on me, Stiles. Always.”

_For life._

Stiles looks knowingly at Derek with all the comprehension and faith Derek needs. Then he surprises him with a bite to the meat of Derek’s shoulder, mumbling incoherent words around a mouthful of deltoid.

Derek would fucking die for him.

_Let’s not fuck around._

Derek smiles and it's a real smile, all teeth and gums, and he huddles down into his den because Stiles’ chest is apparently where he lays his head now. Stiles pulls the sheets up around them, still defending his past actions while continuing to try and tear down Derek’s argument, having already torn down every one of his stony walls from the inside out—hardy like climbing evergreens, reckless and spirited and with that bold yet forever bleeding heart—like nobody else could have possibly even attempted.

Stiles Stilinski.

_The only one._

Derek isn’t wading through fog anymore. Isn’t on the outside looking in. He isn’t lashing out or looming. And even if he’s scared— _and he’s terrified_ —he’s here. Ready to fight for what he wants. Because Stiles is here, already ready.

_Draw your swords._

Derek blurts, “No more fucking around.”

Stiles shuts up for a second. Then he just hums his agreement, a simple sound that holds such weight, before carrying on with his babbling defence.

“Oh and by the way,” Stiles tags onto the end of the onslaught, “You are so totally fucking me later on tonight, dude.”

_Fucking Stiles._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading :)
> 
> Kudos is always greatly appreciated... and I DOUBLE DARE YOU to leave a comment! :D I always reply to msgs, even if it takes me about 17 years to do so.
> 
> Luce, <3


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